


Keys

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and keys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keys

She sits on a hard, straight chair with her hands in her lap, staring forward. She could read, she supposes, or write a letter to her sister, or get ahead in her accounting. None of these things will be done, however, she'll spend this evening the same way she's spent the last twelve. Thirteen.

She sits with her keys in her hand, and counts them, over and over.

_Storeroom, front door, back door, wine cellar, lower attic, upper attic, her office._

_His_.

Her fingers slide through them effortlessly, by muscle memory, she knows exactly which key is which by feel, can tell by the number and size and shape of the teeth which door will be unlocked, which tumbler will click and fall with the turning. For thirteen nights now she has sat on this chair for an hour, two, for as long as she would have stayed with him. As long as it would have taken for them to share tea, wine, stories of their day, problems, little jokes.

She sits here, and counts her keys. When she reaches the one that unlocks his office, she begins again and goes backward.

_His office, hers, upper attic, lower, wine cellar, back door, front, storeroom._

He has been dead now for thirteen days, and she will sit and say this sad, silent rosary for as long as it takes. If she counts her keys enough times, in the right order, just so, he will be there in his room, lighting the fire for them. He will be there waiting for her with a glass of sherry, with her chair pulled close to the warmth.

If she concentrates, if she focuses, he will be there behind his desk, writing out dinner menus, invitations to balls, work schedules. He will not be in a grave just over that hill over there covered in Lady Mary's blanket of flowers and her own small bouquet of roses.

_Upper attic, lower, wine cellar._

The cold silver chains drape through her fingers, around her hand, scrape against her knuckles. She has counted and recounted so many times that her skin is starting to chafe where the links slide over, where they bite down when her fist sometimes closes in involuntary rage.

_Back door, front door, storeroom._

In the end, it hadn't been his heart, after all; it had been a simple summer cold that turned alarmingly fast into pneumonia, which turned into pleurisy, which turned into a collapsed lung and he had died quickly then, gasping for breath, with her hands laced through his and her eyes dripping tears onto his chest, staining his shirt, because she has seen death enough times now to know her when she comes knocking. Has met that dark angel often enough that the beat of her wings is familiar.

_Her office, his._

She had stood by his grave for a long time after everyone else dispersed, had ignored the polite little murmurs of Cora and Robert, had ignored Edith's hesitant hand on her arm, Isobel's stronger one on her shoulder. Had shrugged them off, just stood dry-eyed and chilled to the bone in the warm June sun. Eventually they had just left her, which is what she wanted to begin with.

Elsie was lost as to why they were consoling her anyway. She wasn't crying; Daisy was softly sobbing in the background, why didn't they go embrace her? She wasn't his wife, for heaven's sake, she had been no more to him than any other member of the staff.

_Storeroom, front door, back door._

But none of that matters now, because she's sure if she just finds the right order, if she can sort out how the keys should be, it won't matter anyway. She has opened every door in this house a thousand times, has solved every problem, has heard every complaint and soothed it away. There's no reason why she can't put this to rights, as well.

After all, he had belonged to her, like everything else downstairs. He had been her charge. This is her task to see to, and she will see to it. During the day, she carries on as usual; she directs the maids, does the shopping, disperses the mail, takes care of the finances.

But during the evenings, from about eight to nine, maybe ten, this is what she takes care of. This is what she works on. She sits and says this silent rosary, over and over again, very precisely, very slowly, and eventually she will go to his office — she has not been since that day, she will not, but one day she will, and he will smile when she opens the door after her usual casual knock and there will be two full glasses and a good fire going and he'll smile and say what he always says.

_Ah, Mrs. Hughes, there you are._

The keys click, the chains chime, and she begins again.


End file.
